


I've Got Memories

by FadedSepia



Series: Clint, Bucky, & Winterhawk Prompt Fics [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-07 20:42:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17967707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/pseuds/FadedSepia
Summary: A series of glances into the life of Clint Barton. Very free-form, not overly plotted. Please excuse some very canon non-compliant moments.Written in response to a prompt by elenorasweet, who requested a Clint-centric songfic based on Alice Merton's"No Roots".





	I've Got Memories

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elenorasweet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenorasweet/gifts).



**_I build a home and wait for someone to tear it down  
Then pack it up in boxes, head for the next town running_ **

 

It’s cliché as fuck. ‘course, so was running away to the circus in the first place. Besides, he’d already skipped out on his hospital bill; not like they’d spot him a cab, even if he had someplace to be. The bottom starts falling out and leaves him slogging through muddy ruts on the roadside, and he’s not even surprised. This is just his life. Always has been, always will be. Shit.

When the busted pickup that slows ahead of him isn’t someone looking to kill him and jack his bag, it’s a genuine surprise. Maybe a miracle. The women inside eye him like he might be crazy. He might. Something passes between them, and then the window rolls down. He can’t see much, so close and with it raining, but there ain’t much to see except thick frames and kinky hair.

“This all ya got, kid?”

“Yes’m.”

“Hm.” She presses her lips thin, breathing out through her nose; her voice is east coast, mid-Atlantic, maybe. Displeased. “Where y’headin’?”

“Where y’goin?”

 “Son…” The voice from behind the wheel is harder-edged, even if the speaker is smaller, driving gloves tightening on the wheel.

“Far as y’all’ll take me, ma’am.” He focuses back on the closer woman, putting up the best harmless smile he can. It strains his face, pulling the stitches soaked through under his hat.

“Hm.” She clicks her tongue, tipping her eyes over her glasses to give him one last look. Sympathetic or pitying. Doesn’t matter, she nods, anyway. “Erie, then. Get in the back.”

“Yes’m. Thank you.” The window’s rolling up on his words, so he hefts his bag higher on his shoulder, hustles to pull down the tailgate.

There’s a hardtop over the truck bed, and it keeps off most of the water. Sleeping comes easily, even if the shocks in the back have seen better days. He’s had worse. A lot worse. They drop him at a motel, and Pity-Lenses shoves a bag at him before they wheel away. Half a tuna salad sandwich, can of beer, and a wad of twenties. If it’s his one break in this life, he’ll take it.

 

**_I like standing still, but that's just a wishful plan  
Ask me where I come from, I'll say a different land_ **

 

“Nowhere?” His says name is Phil Coulson, and he looks a little weaselly. “Your birth certificate lists Iowa, not Oklahoma.”

“You got my birth certificate?” They probably got what little there was to get on him. Keeping a cash business and using bodies to clear his trail meant there wasn’t much to find. “Been through Caddo, eh, Philly?”

“Agent Coulson. Or Phil, if you must.” He closes the folder and tucks it under his arm.

“Right… So… how are you gonna do it?”

“What do you presume we plan to do, Mr. Barton?”

“Clinton, if you must. Mr. Barton was my father.” He feels pretty good about that quip.

“Hm.” Peevy-Phil isn’t impressed.

“Just wondering why they sent an office-jockey lookin’ guy like you to bump me off.”

“Bump..? Oh, Mr. Bar- _Clinton_ , no.” The guy looks almost nauseated at the thought, and he has to chuckle. Some top-secret agency this is. “I think you might have the wrong impression of me. About what we do here.”

He has a minute to wonder who the rest of _we_ is before they walk into the room. Only, despite the imposing size, and the murderous one-eyed glare of the second entrant, he’s pretty sure that _we_ could be in the royal sense for the first person to come through the doors.

Don’t matter if she is flanked by a scary-ass pirate-looking wall of murder-faced meat. Don’t matter that she’s gotta be way past retirement age. Don’t matter that she’s in a church-lady-looking charcoal skirt-suit, hair and make-up done like it really is a Holy Sunday. Sure as shit don’t matter that her head barely reaches his chin.

Old gal struts in like most women her age wouldn’t’a snapped their ankles in those heels and fucking owns the room. Little grey-haired thing hits him with a smile that could cut glass, and he knows sugar wouldn’t melt in her mouth. _She_ is the dangerous one here. Fucking finally.

She sounds like every Brit he’s ever heard in the movies, with just the right edge of authority. Brass knuckles in little lace gloves, this one. “I think his impressions aren’t so far off, Philip. Although, Agent Coulson is correct. We have no intentions of _killing_ you.”

“Wouldn’t mind if _you_ did it… Ma’am.” It’s a respect thing; she didn’t have to come down and do this. Could’ve let Peevy-Phil or Winking-Murderface do it, but she took the time to come down and see little ol’ him. “But seems y’have _intentions_ for me?”

“In fact, we do, Clinton Francis.”

He’s not sure if she’s mocking him, but nobody’s punched him – more than necessary, anyway – since this S.H.I.E.L.D. bunch got ahold of him. Murderface looks like he wants to, though; that’s a fact.

It’s still kind of a shock, really; he figured this whole setup was a ghost story, up there with Mothman and the Winter Soldier. Tales told to keep bad little kiddoes in line. ‘course, he hasn’t been a kiddo for a while now. Still, no reason not to be polite to the _lady_ , after all. “Do I get ta know’em?”

“Only if you want a job.”

“I look like someone wh’d work for the government?”

“No, Clinton. You look like a tool.” Brit’s got a mouth on her, don’t she? Her smile goes acid, but she doesn’t give him a minute to feel offended. “A tool needs to be used. We intend to do that.”

“‘til ya use me up?” He can’t help going sing-songy on it.

Brit laughs then, looking a little more her age, a little less like a woman who’s wrenched one too many sets of balls in a vice. He has to grin at the looks she gets from Murderface and Peevy-Phil. They weren’t expecting it.

“I do hope it doesn’t come to that.” She tilts her head at him, eyes still laughing as the smile fades. “I hadn't imagined you would be able to carry a tune so well.”

“Oh, I'm full of surprises.”

“Among other things, I'm sure.” By the way Peevy-Phil blanches, it's clear she means the other things are all shit. Winking-Murderface just looks exasperated. Maybe Brit's less buttoned up than she likes to let on.

She lifts a hand, motioning vaguely in his direction. “Nicholas? If you would?”

Murderface-Nick steps forward, looking more like he wants to break someone’s neck than anything. He’s reticent to back up once the cuffs are off, hand resting just close enough to his sidearm.

Brit saunters past him like it’s nothing, stepping right into strike range and extending her hand. “Director Margaret Carter, though my friends call me Peggy.”

His joints are popping from hours cuffed at wrist and ankle, but he meets her halfway. “Clinton Francis Barton. No friends to speak of, but some corpses mighta called my Hawkeye. But for you, Director Class-Act Peggy Carter, how’s Clint sound?”

She’s laughing, again, and that might mean he actually has a chance to see the outside of a cell in what’s left of this lifetime.

 

 _ **I like digging holes and hiding things inside them**_  
_**When I'll grow old, I hope I won't forget to find them**_  


This is a fucking stupid idea. When did he have to go getting noble and sacrificial and shit? Fury didn’t ask for it, and sure as hell doesn’t want it. Coulson didn’t seem surprised, but then Coulson don’t seem human some days. Must’ve been the picture; kids’d fuck with anybody’s reasoning, even his.

This is still a fucking stupid idea. So it ranks up there with every other fucking stupid idea he’s had since he signed up for this job. Fuck that, it’s outpacing every fucking stupid idea he’s had since he decided not to get in the car with ma and his pops that night.

No wonder this chit is named after a spider: Gangly and twitchy, and too fucking thin. Stories must be true, then, about how tight the Red Room keeps ‘em leashed. Kid that’s got food when they want don’t look like that; he’d know.

She got at least one shot in this last time. That he can feel. Right side’s a little numb, but he can still hold the bow for now. Draw, site, release; right above her head, pinning her arm without hitting anything but her cuff. She’s got to pick up on it, soon. File said she was smart, and a smart girl would know he doesn’t miss.

He can hear the fabric tear.

“What do you want?” Huh. He’d expected an accent, but she is supposed to be a spy. Shouldn't be surprising.

“Honestly, I could go for a beer and some fries, if you want to break for lunch?”

She’s gone by the time he finishes, leaving him to head back to his room and stitch up. There’ll be other chances. He’s not dead, yet.

It’s two days before he knows she’s following him like a damn stray cat; another five before he convinces her to do more than snatch the sandwiches he leaves outside the hotel windows when she thinks he’s asleep.

“This is disgusting. Why do you make it?”

He doesn’t look up from the wet-bar, adding more mayonnaise. She'd have killed him already, if that was her plan. Being uninvited, she barely counts as company, so he can half ignore her. “Tuna salad... kind of a tradition for this sorta thing.”

“Whose tradition?”

“Mine, katyenok.”

Disgusting or not, she eats another two. He feels like he really has picked up a cat, the way she swivels just her head to watch him clean and stow his equipment, eyes wide and cold. She must blink when he’s not looking. She’s human, so she has to blink now and then. He lets her have the shower first. Let her think he’s being a gentleman; she’s gorgeous, armed or not, but she’s getting kinda rank. He doesn’t hear her leave while he’s washing up, and she grabs a beer before she goes.

They make it to Budapest like that. Him assuming she’ll show up when she’s hungry, or dirty, or cold. Her coming in through the window like doors don’t even fucking exist. Least she’s better than a real cat; she never shits on the floor or claws up his pants. She doesn’t make noise, but neither of them has actually shot the other since that first day. So a few bodies show up along his route? That’s someone else’s problem.

The night before he flies out, she curls up on the bed to sleep. He doesn’t hesitate to throw a blanket over her. Doesn’t ask about the hand-cuff she uses to attach her wrist to the headboard, or the knife he feels against his spine when he wakes up to take a leak. She’s still there in the morning to bitch about his coffee, so maybe this is mission accomplished.

 

**_And a thousand times I've seen this road  
A thousand times..._ **

 

His nose is definitely broken, again, and fuck his star-spangled ass with a goddamned cactus if Steve ain’t actin’ like it’s his own fault. He’s just in the kitchen for breakfast and coffee like everyone else. Getting clocked in the head with a metal fist holding a toaster is not something he’s ever fucking planned for.

Short, buff, and brooding looks almost embarrassed, and he can’t help wondering if Steve’s not blowing this whole thing out of proportion.

Either way, he’s got shit planned for the day, besides having Natasha set his nose for the umpteenth time, so he’s already headed back to his own floor. It’s not the fancy frothy one in the big kitchen, but his little efficiency has a drip maker that still churns it out, and that’s good enough for now.

He’s just about settled in with his burnt eggs and sludge in a mug when the lights flash around his door, and he hears the knocking. Steve never sounds that hesitant, Tony’d usually be talking, Bruce never leaves his floor, and Nat doesn’t knock. Since he’s on this side, that leaves one option on the other.

Dead-Eyes Barnes, who looks way too fucking haunted to be called _Bucky_ , fidgets in the doorway.

First he gets picked up S.H.I.E.L.D., then he fights aliens, and now he’s been clocked in the face by an embarrassed Winter Soldier. Mothman can suck it; his life is insanity. “You want something?”

“Coffee?”

“Sure.” He leaves the guy at the door. Second cup poured, he slams down sugar and milk with it on the table, then goes back to his eggs.

Barnes slips through the space like he’s afraid to break anything. Which, considering what the guy did to his face earlier, is pretty damn funny. The man doesn’t laugh when he says as much, though.

Dead-Eyes just stares, watches him eat. He can’t help wondering if this is just how super-soldiers get trained; Barnes is starting to remind him of another stray.

“I could have killed you.”

“Mmhmm.”

“You’re not scared of me?” Somehow, the Winter Soldier looks concerned for his safety. Fuckin’ weird.

He shrugs. Goes back for another cup of coffee, grabs a leftover piece of pie and two forks on his way back. He’s willing to eat the whole slice himself, but a little hospitality might do wonders. “I’m the most normal guy in this outfit. Everyone can kill me. You’ll get used to it.”

 

 **_I've got no roots_ **  
**_But my home was never on the ground_**

 

He’s not sure when _this_ becomes a thing. When he stops bristling at sharing the high places, having anyone up there with him. When he makes peace with the fact that someone could have a resting-murder face worse than Fury’s and still somehow be cute. When he starts to realize he has somewhere to go back to. To go _home_ to. It isn’t much space, cradled in against a hard chest, cold feet wedging between his calves every night. Fuck it, though; the place between those strong arms is his now.

Not that it’s easy, by any means. Sometimes he wakes up feeling like he’s gone nine-rounds with a cannonball, and looking worse. Sometimes it shows that he’s only shared a bed with Nat, who is a light enough sleeper to rouse him before he starts screaming. And sometimes the dog decides the bed belongs to him, and they have to work out fitting two grown-ass men safely onto his busted-ass couch. Safely, cause it sure as hell won’t be _comfortably_ for very long.

But it’s still good because Barnes doesn’t know things, and neither does he, and nights like this are for being stupid, and hurt, and really fucking tired. They’re washed up and under the sheets, and Kate has the dog, so they might actually have a chance at sleeping.

He’s snuggled into the crook of Buck’s shoulder, long accustomed to adjusting around the seam of flesh and metal. He’s certainly slept on worse. A yawn pulls his jaw until it strains, and he curls in closer. Everything fucking hurts today, and they’re supposed to debrief in the morning.

Bucky taps the butterfly bandage over his eye, wincing to himself. “That one might scar.”

“Knew you were only dating me for my pretty face, Barnes.”

“Shut yer hole.” He gets a cuff on the shoulder for his trouble; light enough that he knows Bucky’s trying to mind his other bruises, firm enough to put some weight behind the pout that comes with it.

“Make me.”

Bucky pulls him up and does just that.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, the handcuff thing was actually pulled from the Agent Carter series. ANybody else remember her proto-Red Room spy neighbor?


End file.
